Miscellanea
by ch19777
Summary: A collection of random, prompt-based fic(let)s. Will probably be mainly Jane/Lisbon, but different genres. Chapter 12: Crossing Lines
1. Seduction for Dummies

**Title: **Seduction for Dummies

**Characters:** Jane, Lisbon, the hot mail room guy

**Genre:** Romance/Humor

**Prompt: **Lisbon has a very subtle way of flirting... with the mail room guy.

_Written for chizuru_chibi / __Chiisana Minako_ _in the mentalistprompt fic meme on LJ._

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Swaying her hips that provokingly was just grotesque. Lisbon wasn't able to remember when she the last time purposely drew that much attention to her body. At least it was lunch break and hardly anyone was around to watch her making a fool of herself. Her smile felt frozen on her lips and she wondered how any man could fall for this cheap farce. Still she was too stubborn to chicken out now and continued stalking from her office to the kitchen, sticking exactly to the game plan.

She had no idea what on earth was sexy about tucking her hair behind her ear, but _someone_ had told her that it was a seductive gesture, so she performed it every five steps – just in case. In the kitchen _he_ was already waiting for her, smiling brightly and raising an eyebrow upon her entrance. Lisbon had expected a certain bold behavior of him in this situation, but the rapturous delight he was displaying now made her feel nervous. Casting down her eyes, she chose to ignore him in favor of the coffee machine. Aloofness to impress a man was something else she was skeptical about, but it was apparently an approved method of flirting.

Reaching for a mug, she 'accidentally' brushed against his biceps and felt him shiver under her palm. A secret rush of joy about her own abilities washed through her and she turned away from him to hide the smile that tugged at her lips.

Then suddenly, unexpectedly, he turned the tables.

The warmth of his hands was barely shielded by the thin fabric of her shirt.

His breath teasingly danced on her flushed neck.

Enticing, his whispering voice entered her ears.

"Turn around. Look."

She froze, immediately felt embarrassed when she remembered that the purpose of this whole charade unfortunately wasn't doing sensuous things with the man at her side in the office kitchen. So she grudgingly did turn around and set eyes on Carlos, the hot mail room guy, who had stopped distributing papers in the bullpen and instead stared into the kitchen with a defeated expression.

That outrageous plan Jane had come up with to "help her find love" and had blackmailed her into participating in was actually working and she now knew for sure: Carlos was indeed interested in her, just as Jane had claimed.

She closed her eyes to block the sight of the jealous man out and sighed.

It was really just too bad for Carlos that she – with Jane's teeth nibbling at her ear and his fingers fiddling with the hem of her shirt – suddenly didn't care anymore about hot-blooded Latinos at all.

ღ_** The End**_


	2. Vow of Silence

Thanks to tromana, lysjelonken, HeatherCornwell, lucyyh, Jisbon4ever, xxpoeticjusticexx, Famous4it and Mary for reviewing the first little story. I hope you'll like that one as well.

**Title: **Vow of Silence

**Characters:** Jane, Lisbon

**Genre: **Romance/Angst

**Prompt: **"A dream stays a dream if not woken" ~ Bare Hands by Delta Goodrem

_Written for tromana in the mentalistprompt fic meme on LJ._

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Once a week, we have a breakfast date. Just the two of us in a random coffeehouse as far away as possible from both our homes, the office and impending gossip. We sip our beverages and eat croissants in intimate togetherness. We enjoy the warm sunlight shining down on us and observe the strangers around us. Lisbon looks gorgeous when she absentmindedly twirls a strand of hair with her fingers or when the tip of her tongue slowly removes a hint of frothy milk from her upper lip.

We revel in each other's company, but we have a tacit agreement: If I don't ask her any private questions, she doesn't ask me why I constantly gaze at her. So we don't talk about anything of importance during breakfast, ever. We ask for the sugar bowl or for a certain page of the morning paper. We discuss the weather and crime rates and movies. Trickier topics are taboo.

Silence is a form of nonverbal communication, they say, but I'm sure it would work better if she'd at least look me in the eyes. Just for once. Maybe today. But she doesn't, only sits and eats and seems inexplicably sad. I slightly open my mouth, the words already eager to escape, but then I remember our deal and almost choke on all the things I can't say to her.

_Are you okay? Why are you so sad? I love you. _

She wouldn't answer, isn't in the position to reply to the questions nor to reciprocate the statement.

She doesn't like to talk about feelings. _Love is an illusion._

Sometimes she hides her honest eyes behind sunglasses to prevent that the traitors give anything away.

An hour goes by and I still don't tell her how much she means to me. The people around us probably think we have grown apart, but this isn't true. Below the surface our emotions are seething; impatiently they wait for their chance to break free.

But first we have to get through a long drive in separate cars.

And walk thirty-two steps up to my apartment.

A faded mermaid looks down on us when our aroused, starved bodies finally unite.

Before our pact of silence, Lisbon once told me that the corny picture above my bed reminds her of a book of fairy tales from her childhood.

_Once upon a time..._ we used to share heart-to-heart conversations.

Then, one day, she rested her head on my chest.

I gently stroked her hair.

She confessed to feeling secure in my arms.

I kissed her temple.

She decided to remain silent when I asked her why she was crying and thereby sealed our fate.

Today she assumes the same pose in my arms. In my mind I dream up a world where I can always hold her like this. Through a protective veil of tousled hair she smiles at me and distracts me with deliberate kisses on the corner of my mouth.

Like always, I make love to her once more before she leaves me.

To give me strength enough to see her daily for the next six days while being forced to pretend having no feelings for her whatsoever.

To be able to keep a straight face until she gets dressed and drives home, to her husband and son.

Standing at the window, I watch her car disappear around a corner. I wish I would be able to make her stay with me, but deep inside I know that my foolish, desperate love for her will leave me tongue-tied forever.

ღ **_The End_**


	3. Spring Cleaning

Thanks to tromana, lysjelonken, Jisbon4ever, lucyyh, Famous4it, ch19777 fan, MissNitaGirl, xxpoeticjusticexx, Siina and HeatherCornwell for reviewing chapter 2!

**Title: **Spring Cleaning

**Characters:** Jane, Lisbon, Mrs. Jane

**Genre:** AU/Angst

**Prompt: **see the quote below

**Warning:** major character death (Please refrain from throwing inanimate objects – it will only damage your computer screen and leave me unharmed.)

_Written for tromana_ _in the mentalistprompt fic meme on LJ. (Thank you for encouraging me to post this.)_

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"_Sometimes life breaks in mysterious ways" (From Sorry, Love Daddy by Brian McFadden)_

ღ

Standing on the patio, she feels the weight of the world on her shoulders. It is a bad day. A day of mourning without any reason to actual mourn. Yet.

She lived here for a little over five years now and she never really liked it. Except for the occasional sunrise or sunset that bathes the water below in crimson light and warms her heart, the place seems like a waste of space and money. It was his idea to buy the huge house with ocean view. His decision to fill it with overly expensive furniture. It is what they deserve after the less rosy times they went through together, he often says.

It doesn't matter at all what she wants, that she would prefer a more simple life altogether. That she hates his lies and his snobby behavior whenever he receives guests in their house that she somehow only regards as his. She puts up with all his antics because, to be fair, he is always a different man when he is alone with her. Or so she believed, until last night.

She rather wants to forget everything she discovered and pretend that nothing is wrong. This worked well for her in the past, but then she was only plagued by vague suspicions. Now that she _knows_, it simply isn't possible anymore to stay in denial. The confirmation of her deepest fears feels like someone put a dirty finger in a fresh wound and can't be ignored.

She washes the dishes, a week's worth of drinking glasses and dirty plates. She puts empty bottles in a shopping basket to throw them away later. Places leftover pizza from dinner last night on a plate and puts them in the refrigerator. She throws away the pizza boxes and sweeps the kitchen floor. Cleaning is annoying, but also liberating. At last she starts the coffeemaker; the coffee will wait for her when she finished the next task on her schedule.

Cautiously she opens the bedroom door. Diffuse light illuminates the room and casts a soft, shimmery haze on the sleeping figures on the bed. They are naked and immersed in the deep, relaxing sleep of two people who drifted off with the satisfying certainty to belong to the happy few couples with perpetually great sex.

She sits down on a chair next to the wardrobe and observes them for a while. He is lying prone and she on her side, their hands almost touching. They probably fell asleep holding hands. How corny. Their breathing is calm and in tune with each other.

Peaceful.

Intolerable.

The bedside table clock blinks and dares her. She gets up and checks for when he set the alarm.

9 AM.

She grimaces. She announced her return from her business trip for 4 PM, many hours later than it is now. It is a pity, really. He planned everything so well and now she foils him. And all because she had the effrontery to find and open the small envelope that laid so innocently and pristine white between driver's and back seat.

Her unfaithful husband and the woman he introduced to her years ago as his boss could have shared another breakfast. They could have fed each other. She could have washed the dishes, he could have tried them up. Inside jokes. Laughter. Promises. Then they could have gotten rid of the empty bottles and pizza boxes. The dear Agent Lisbon could have disposed of them on her way home.

Maybe they'd have had sex in the living room once more. Or in bed before he would have arranged the blankets in a way to distract from the fact that more than one person covered their bodies with them. A quick, wet tongue kiss on the doorstep. A hastily arranged next date - maybe already officially as a couple, provided that Patrick would have had the balls to be honest for once - and then Teresa Lisbon would have driven off in time.

Unfortunately things wouldn't work out that way now. She touches Patrick's naked shoulder and furrows her brow. His skin is cold. How often did she tell him to wear a shirt during the night? He grumbles; her touch unsettles him. He turns his back on her and embraces his naked companion who immediately snuggles up to him.

Mrs. Jane sighs. She opens her purse with steady hands, gets out the gun and pulls the trigger. Twice. And with pinpoint precision. Daddy is a weapon fanatic, and a good teacher.

The two bodies on the bed barely flinch, but her dying husband opens his eyes for a fleeting moment. Stares at his wife, rather incredulously than horrified. He surely didn't deem his usually so obedient wifey capable of _that_.

He certainly didn't expected either that his widow enjoys a nice cup of coffee right after he drew his last breath. For a while she just soaks up the silence of the house before she reaches for the envelope on the kitchen table and has a last look on its content. Another woman's womb carries the embryo that is her prerogative.

Slowly she rips the ultrasound picture to pieces. Once. Twice. As many times as humanly possible. The shreds burn superbly, even if a little too slowly for her taste. She hopes the house will react a little faster to the flames later.

She sighs once more. There is nothing left to repress anymore. There is no reason to go on pretending now. The wound is almost healed. It is time for a little bonfire before picking up her daughter at her grandmother's place.

**ღThe End**


	4. Pas Seul

Thank you to tromana, lysjelonken, lucyyh, xxpoeticjusticexx, Famous4it, HeatherCornwell, Jisbon4ever and ch19777 fan for reviewing chapter 3. :)

**Title: **Pas Seul

**Characters:** Lisbon, Jane

**Genre:** Romance (of the melancholy kind)

**Prompt: **see the quote below

_Written for tromana_ _in the mentalistprompt fic meme on LJ._

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_Cold, wrapped up in darkness_  
_Feeling alone, emotionally drained_  
~ Delta Goodrem and Brian McFadden, Hollow No More

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_pas seul_: _A dance for one person._

ღ

Jane leaves her, night after night. Absconds as soon as she sleeps, remains silent when she is brave enough to confront him with his behavior. Countless times Lisbon told herself to end whatever this game is that they are playing, but then she is never able to go through with it when he kisses her with chapped lips.

The tenderness of his fingertips on her skin deceives her that he actually cares, that all this means something. Their shared nights are sweet and warm and she feasts on the deliciousness of being with him.

Entwines him with her legs.

Cries out his name.

Dreams of a faraway planet were the sun never rises and they can stay together like this forever.

But eventually the thrills of ecstasy cease and she starts wondering if this time he will still be there in the morning. Then, in those vulnerable moments between waking and sleeping, she already senses that in this dark room feelings don't matter at all, only bodies.

This is really the last time, she promises herself as she paces back and forth in Jane's small bedroom. He is much too late. Again. Three days ago she still took it as a good sign that he gave her a key to his rented apartment. Now, looking at the austere, impersonal interior, she realizes that she was a fool to believe that he is finally opening up to her. This place is disposable for him. And maybe _she_ is as well.

Lisbon lays down on the bed and tries to refrain from pointless contemplation. There is a crack at the ceiling. Plaster dust drifts down slowly in time to the classical music from upstairs. The room is lonely, depressing. Longs for Jane's company.

She can't stay here any longer without losing her mind.

But then Jane is suddenly here, is exhilarated. Cracks jokes and talks and doesn't give her a chance to speak. She is aware of his fear that she might be able to look behind his cheerful mask and recognize how ridden by cravings for revenge he still is. He has no idea how well informed she really is, that a whole team of skilled agents watches his every move at her command. He was never supposed to know just how much she worries about him, but suddenly she is sick of the dishonesty between them.

She pours her heart out, tells him everything.

About her fears.

Her needs.

Her flaws.

He backs away from her when she tries to embrace him, closes up like a flower at nightfall. He looks frail, made of glass that breaks in her hands and cuts her palms. He doesn't notice the raw wounds he causes when he turns around and walks away from her once more, leaving nothing behind but painful uncertainty if he will ever return. She slumps onto the bed, feeling a familiar ache of yearning and despair.

Staring into the darkness that engulfs her, she knows that she will wait for him - as long as it takes.

**ღThe End**


	5. Blood and Roses

Thank you again to yaba, tromana, HeatherCornwell, Famous4it, lysjelonken, lucyyh, Jisbon4ever and ch19777 fan for reviewing chapter 4.

**Title: **Blood and Roses

**Characters:** Lisbon, Jane, an uninvited guest

**Genre:** Angst

**Prompt: **Blood Roses

_Response to prompt #4 in prompt table A (mentalistprompt community on LJ)._

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_I want to love but it comes out wrong  
I want to live but I don't belong  
I close my eyes and I see  
Blood and roses _

~ Blood and Roses, The Smithereens

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This morning you don't get up alone, Teresa. I am close on your heels.

In a hurry you walk through the rooms and your naked, adorable feet soundlessly touch the raw floorboards. Your skimpy nightdress caresses the contours of your body. The gentle light of dawn toys with your hair and illuminates your ivory skin when you undress and, shivering from the cold, long for a hot shower.

Of thin fabric is the curtain, and insufficient to shield you from my hungry eyes. The water temperature, unreliable this early in the morning, elicits a shriek that makes me mourn the many years I had to exist without this delicious sound. But now, while the drops of water roll down your goosebumps, I am finally with you.

I'm your omniscient observer, still effacing myself yet always there.

Wrapped in a towel, you leave the shower and go back to the bedroom. Shrouded in semi-darkness you change into your work outfit, but the absence of light doesn't pose an obstacle for my eager eyes. With every move the muscles underneath your precious skin flex. Pieces of clothes may now conceal your body, but they accentuate its beauty and perfection at the same time. With a steady hand you comb your shiny hair, your head slightly tilted.

Even without the aid of night vision goggles you soon begin to adjust to the half-light and you affectionately look at the sleeping figure on the bed. It was him whom I followed on that fateful night so many months ago, but you who mesmerized me ever since I first saw you kiss his unworthy lips at your doorstep. You gently stroke his golden curls and the obvious infatuation displayed in this simple gesture poisons the atmosphere and forces me to look away for a brief moment.

I pay close attention to you again when you hastily drink your coffee and have a quick bite of toast. You are late for work and the man in your bed upstairs is to blame for this, just as you and your insatiability are responsible for his matutinal grogginess.

I follow you when you leave the house.

I'm right behind you when you drive to work.

Soon, Teresa, I will do so much more. I will step out of the shadows and drop all pretense.

I'll be your last rush of adrenaline.

The paleness of your face when you'll realize that the flowers on your dresser aren't a present from Goldilocks, but my farewell gift to you.

I'll be the pain you will feel.

The blood you will shed.

The breaking of your voice.

The acceleration of your pulse at the sight of a sharp blade.

I'll be the grief of your loved ones, weeping inconsolably at your funeral.

You still hold sway over me now, I still can't get enough of you. But you know what? I'll get bored of you eventually, I always do. Soon I'll turn the tables and you'll become expendable, just like all my other fading obsessions before you.

Because the truth is that I am your death, my love.

Do you already sense my presence or does the memory of a passionate night distract you too much?

Can you already hear me whisper sweet words of eternal goodbye to you?

I'll get louder day after day now, until the icy tone of my voice will make you scream. My days as a passive observer are numbered.

Soon your heart won't beat anymore.

**ღThe End**


	6. Dead Alive

**Title:** Dead Alive

**Characters:** Red John, Jane

**Genre:** General/Angst

**Prompt: **Tease (#5 in prompt table A in the mentalistprompt community on LJ)

**Spoilers:** Season 3 finale

**Notes:** Episode tag for 3x24 Strawberries & Cream Part II.

_For tromana, because it's partly her 'fault' that I still attempt to write at all. *smirks*_

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Olfaction is the first of his senses to detect that something just went terribly wrong.

Even before the agonizing pain overwhelms him, before he notices Patrick Jane's pleading look turn into an ice-cold stare, the smell of burned flesh hits him and evokes a childhood memory of an unfortunate encounter with a Christmas candle.

The scent doesn't make any sense to him, and neither does the faint, sickly odor of blood that accompanies it. It's only when his vision begins to blur, and he feels himself slump to the ground, that his mind jumps to the conclusion that Patrick Jane is much more of a loose canon than he ever would have guessed.

_And the bastard didn't even have the decency to aim directly at his heart._

Yet somewhere between rage and pain and confusion simmers also the notion that this mess isn't Mr. Jane's fault at all.

With enormous effort he heaves his fingers to his stomach to feel underneath his shirt for the smooth material of the vest he believed to be bulletproof. That he was _told_ to be bulletproof.

He isn't able to grasp all of this, but he knows enough to be genuinely upset by the fact that he is lying in a pool of his own blood instead of being chauffeured to his home to be finally reunited with his family.

His wife.

Little Frederic.

Whose sudden and violent abduction from their house a few days ago brought him here to begin with.

Blood gurgles in his throat when he opens his mouth to gasp for air.

He longs to lift his head and look at the man who very likely ended his life, to confide in him about the things that lurk beneath the apparent plainness of today's events. A last act of benevolence to redeem himself before drawing his last breath and maybe a chance to convey his goodbye to his family - if they are still alive.

However he feels weak, paralyzed even, with his body broken and his mind slowly but surely shrinking to nothingness.

Darkness.

Absolute and indefinite.

He isn't scared or angry or anything anymore; he just wants to sleep.

But then, this familiar voice.

Far away.

Coming closer.

Soaking up his pain and intensifying it at the same time.

How desperately did he rehearse to get the provocative tone of that voice just right; and how relentlessly did the owner of said voice urge him again and again to become even more authentic.

_'Patrick Jane may be blinded, but he is not a fool.'_

He forgets that he is moribund and uses the last of his strength to squint.

The fragments he is able to make out - paramedic uniform, a smug smile, the wheels of a gurney - mingle in his mind with things that came before.

Custom-made suit.

A bloody grin on a wall.

Governmental license plates.

Eventually everything grows hazy. What remains is the recognition that he made a pact with the devil, and that it cost him everything.

The voice keeps him company until the very end.

Soothing.

The way his mother used to talk to him a lifetime ago.

Then, nothing.

**ღThe End**


	7. Moonlight Sonata

**Title: **Moonlight Sonata

**Characters:** Red John

**Genre:** Angst (of the creepy kind)

**Prompt: **better late than never ( prompt #83 at the mentalistprompt community at LJ)

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Breaking the deep silence, the first notes of the piano piece rang out crisply. The music echoing through the dark house, the piano player appreciatively inhaled the moldy scent of the old walls. His slender fingers tickled the ivories almost mechanically, yet still they produced sounds full of emotion.

Of melancholia.

_ It seeped out. _

Like an apple blossom slowly unfurling, the music became more beautiful with every strike of the keys. The expression on the face of the piano player remained impassive though. Lost in reverie, he seemed, as if performing a ritual that had nothing to do with himself.

_ Dripped down. _

Only when the last lingering sounds of the sonata faded away and funereal silence took its place again, he awoke from his trance. For the first time he consciously perceived the gloomy scene laid out in front of him.

_ Studded the floor with glistening rubies. _

Even without taking notice of the stained blade on the stool next to him or the bouquet of red roses on the table, he was fully aware – had been the whole time – that he had created it. He studied her ivory body, spread out on top of the black piano amidst slowly expanding redness.

_ Fresh blood, still warm._

Rosalind.

He would miss their conversations.

Her nonjudgmental mind.

The skillful way she used to play the piano for him every time he visited.

But sadly, there came the time in every relationship when it was inevitable to put an end to it. A human being like her – so naively and dangerously honest – in the long term just wasn't cut out for answering only his purpose. Whatever she believed, for him she always had been only another number on his to-kill list.

Gently, he closed the lid of her piano and dipped his gloved right hand into the red puddle on the floor.

**ღThe End**


	8. Oubliette

**Title: **Oubliette

**Characters:** Jane, Lisbon, mentions of Red John

**Genre:** General/Romance

**Spoilers:** A hint at an aspect of already aired episodes of season 4, nothing obvious though.

**Prompt: **Saving the World

**Notes: **Written for the Paint It Red April monthly challenge.

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A Monday in April.

Another town.

Another mutilated body.

Number forty-three, if Jane counts correctly.

The usual painting on the wall.

Sunlight filtering through the curtains.

Dripping blood.

Same old, same old.

Jane remains impassive, unimpressed, while he watches his colleagues running around like headless chickens. He envies them their enthusiasm, how focused they still are after all those years. Jane himself lost this dedication several victims ago.

Lisbon.

Frowning as she is right now, she looks a little helpless, but he knows that her appearance can be deceiving. She, of all people, right now is probably the one most determined to catch Red John. Not because it would give a boost to her career, but simply because the need to protect innocents from evil is running in her blood.

He averts his eyes; one of the few things that still get to him nowadays is seeing her tilting at windmills.

He is supposed to help her.

To stay true to his word and stop Red John once and for all, too.

Instead he's only going through the motions. Pretends to inspect something here and to come up with absurd theories there, when really he has no clue at all anymore. Eventually Jane steps out into the sunny day.

The least he can do is to not obstruct the investigation.

###

In June, he is running through a nightly wood.

He and Lisbon, that is.

An unexpected stirring of his old talents earned them a new lead. Or maybe a new trap; he isn't quite sure yet which.

If it were up to him, he would have come here alone. Would gladly have played the martyr. But Lisbon insisted, figured him out right away. Somehow he's glad now that she is at his side. Or he at hers. Without her, he might have turned back by now.

They stumble forward.

Listen carefully.

Sounds of nature, nothing else.

A moonbeam briefly illuminates the barrel of Lisbon's gun.

Jane moves closer to her.

Is surprised when he recognizes the long-lost feeling, that seizes hold of him, as fear.

The noise of splintering twigs now.

A movement a few feet to their right.

A wild animal, maybe.

In human form.

A shadowy figure.

Two.

He feels Lisbon tense up next to him, hardly dares to breathe himself.

A break in the clouds suddenly reveals the eerie scene in front of them.

A young woman, almost still a girl.

Alive.

Not a scratch on her.

Yet.

The shiny blade.

A man eager to use it.

Jane's anger flares up unexpectedly, makes his head spin. And yet his mind is clearer than it ever was before. He knows what to do now, remembers what he should have done years ago.

He reaches for Lisbon's gun.

###

Five days later, Jane is still irked that Lisbon shoved him away. That in the end Red John died by her hand, not his. At least that's the official explanation for his sullenness while everyone else celebrates a victory that Jane secretly isn't sure they achieved.

It is all too easy.

Two shots to the chest just don't seem enough to end over a decade of evilness.

Every moment now, the note can arrive.

A letter full of malice.

Or simply one more dead body.

Another testimony that they once again were fooled.

Meanwhile, his colleagues dissect every aspect of the alleged Red John's life. His fingerprints are in the system. Not because he was convicted of a crime before, but because he was working for the government. Jane remains unconvinced; even more powerful men fell for the real Red John in the past.

He begins to feel like a burden to the team. Can't contribute anything at all to the ongoing investigation. His days are spent mostly on his couch now, pretending to sleep in order to be left alone. He should have known that Lisbon wouldn't fall for this trick. The loudness of her voice calling out his name would haven woken him even if he actually would have been asleep. For the first time in days, Jane attempts at a smile.

Lisbon doesn't mention where she is taking him, but that's alright; he likes driving around with her.

They stop in front of a house that looks like all the others in the neighborhood. Homey, ordinary. Only the crime scene tape gives away that this place tells a different story. One look at Lisbon's face confirms who used to live here until a few days ago.

Jane swallows. Then he goes in before he loses the courage. The interior is a disappointment. He expects to feel something, get a sense of looming viciousness, but room after room oozes nothing but normalcy. If it weren't for the occasional cop roaming the building, anyone could live here. For what it's worth, even Jane himself could live here.

He doesn't understand why he was brought to this place. Why Lisbon even made him wear rubber gloves. He turns to leave, is ready to go back to the office and wait for the inevitable. Red Johns wins again.

But Lisbon has other plans. Without a word she steers him through corridors to another door, one that he failed to notice earlier. She pushes the door open for him, then stands aside. Those last few steps he is apparently supposed to take on his own.

Hesitantly, he moves forward. His thirst for knowledge gave way to a feeling of dread the moment he realized that the house has a basement. But there is no turning back now. Downstairs could wait for him what he has been searching for since coming home to his deathly still house all those years ago.

Initially, the basement seems ordinary enough.

Concrete floor.

Some shelves and an old wardrobe.

A bulb on the ceiling, bathing the room in yellowy light.

The first thing that strikes Jane as odd is the absence of any clutter.

No discarded appliances.

No random tools strewn about.

No boxes of keepsakes or the like.

The shelves are completely empty, not even a speck of dust on any of them. The sense of disappointment returns, threatens to eat him alive. But Lisbon wouldn't have sent him down here without a reason. And there is still the wardrobe, suited to conceal all kinds of secrets. Setting all his hope on this one piece of furniture, he tears open the doors.

At first, the array of little wooden boxes in front of him doesn't make much sense to him. He steps closer.

Notices that they are all the same size.

Counts forty-three of them.

Sees the little rectangular strips of paper attached exactly in the middle of each of them.

Reads the typewritten numbers.

Recognizes them as dates that he has memorized from dozens of case files throughout the years.

Jane knows what he's dealing with now.

He pulls out a box to look inside.

Then another.

One by one, he inspects the keepsakes that he was missing earlier. He glances at the more artistic versions of their crime scene photos contained in each box.

Tenderly strokes a stained brooch.

A curl of hair.

A button.

A lipstick.

A necklace.

In the end, only two boxes with identical dates in the upper half of the wardrobe remain untouched. One day he will be ready to face the contents of those as well. For now it's enough to know that they will wait for him in the evidence vault.

He senses Lisbon's presence even before she speaks.

"We got him. This time, it's really over."

Only then he understands that all the time she had the same doubts as him. That she as well didn't dare to be relieved until she set foot into this basement.

He is glad that she got the chance to serve justice, but – unlike for her – it was never about saving the world for him.

All he ever wanted, was to save himself.

And Lisbon.

In the devil's lair, he reaches for her hand.

As she intertwines her fingers with his, it occurs to him that maybe the world wasn't all she meant to save from Red John either.

**ღThe End**


	9. Dressed In Leather

**Title: **Dressed In Leather

**Characters:** Jane/Lisbon/Couch

**Genre:** Crack!fic and... um, (a strange kind of) romance?

**Spoilers:** None.

**Prompt: **"It's me or the couch."

**Notes: **Written for tromana as a part of the Paint It Red ficathon 2012.

* * *

It's open house at the CBI and you wonder who came up with that inane idea. Probably some high-ranking guy with the luxury to hide in his own closed office until the worst is over. Needless to say, you had a rough day instead.

People passed you by, dozens of eager creatures who all wanted the same from you. Who never learned how to treat anyone with respect and kindness. An especially cheeky one actually dared to come on to you. And someone else spilled coffee on you. Not much, but enough to hurt and to stain your classy look.

But finally things are looking up as _he_ just returns.

Blond.

Tall.

Handsome.

He's charming, that one. Always attentive, always able to make you feel better. He may wander off now and then, sure, but at the end of the day he always comes back to you. Now he's smiling that irresistible smile of his and you become exhilarated. Because he is directing it at you, has eyes for nobody else right now.

The anticipation is nearly killing you until he is at your side. He sheds his jacket, then his shoes. That's how comfortable he feels with you. His hand is warm. Gently he caresses you, smooths down a crease that your latest careless visitor has left on you.

Then he is finally on top of you. You realize that you waited for the sensation of his firm buttocks squeezing you down since he left you in the morning. Forgetting the troubles of the day, you make yourself as soft as possible for him. Soon he relaxes into you, snuggles up to your leathery exterior. This is perfection. Until he found you, you never had a relationship of such intimate quality.

But then you hear _her_ voice and you tense up. She always shows up when you feel most happy. You realized a long time ago that you both have the same taste in men, that she wants what you have. She is showering him with all those little smiles and gestures that make you sick. Unfortunately, he doesn't seem to be immune to that kind of behavior.

There she comes, tries to lure him into her office under a pretext. He doesn't fall for it, stays exactly where he is. Where he belongs. She must have noticed your gloating as suddenly the toe of her shoe hits you. You are paralyzed; she resorted to violence before, but never that cruelly. Surely he won't tolerate this assault on you.

He is already on his feet.

Plants himself in front of her.

Points at you and says something to her that you unfortunately don't understand.

Then he... laughs?

And walks away with her?

He only stays a few minutes until he comes back with an apologetic expression, you have to give him credit for that. Yet still he betrayed you, made you look like a fool in front of her. Your fluffy batting stiffens and your leather tenses when he lays down on you again. It gives you a strange kind of satisfaction when he tosses and turns all night without finding any rest. This will teach him a lesson, will make him thinks twice to treat you like this again.

At the crack of dawn, she returns. With a new case, allegedly. You don't buy this for even a second, figured out that she's on the warpath the moment you noticed her wearing a _leather _jacket today. That woman never gives up, but two can play this game. You soften a little to show him that you forgive him, but are prepared to pierce him with one of your springs in case he misbehaves again.

He sits up, but this time he refuses to go. Your excitement is immeasurable when they get in a fight over it, complete with yelling and all. And then, unbelievably, he says the words that make your stuffing melt. Loud and clear.

"I can't sneak off with you all the time, Lisbon. The couch will get jealous."

For half an eternity you wait for her reaction. She's really a slow one. At first, she bites her lower lip. You hope that she will cry, but instead she eventually grins at your man. Teasingly, as if you weren't right under him.

"You know, some day you'll have to decide, Jane. Is it me or the couch?"

You can hardly believe it. The cheek of that woman! He does look a little smitten with her now, there's no denying it. You fear the worst. Already picture yourself discarded in some drafty basement, where the rats will gnaw away at you and some sloppy janitor will splotch you with hamburger sauce.

"What if I want both?" He asks now and invitingly pats your surface next to his buttocks.

You needn't have worried; he knows where his place is. And if you have to share him to keep him, be it.

She is a little more hesitant than you at first, but then she reaches out to brush your leathery armrest with her fingertips. You have to admit, from close up she does look pretty cute. And it's been a while since you had the chance to enjoy a female touch. Feeling her hands on you, you know that you can get used to her way of attention. When she finally decides to sit down, you make yourself especially supple to welcome her.

Let the fun begin.

**ღThe End**


	10. QueenFool

**Title: **Queen/Fool

**Characters:** Lisbon, other

**Genre:** General

**Spoilers:** None.

**Prompt: **Only fools carry on.

**Notes: **Written for the Paint It Red July monthly challenge.

* * *

_no shade of doubt, no need for proof  
you're my queen and I'm your fool_

- Tender Days, Wolfsheim

ღ

His pulse quickens as Lisbon exits her office. She looks wonderful, and decidedly innocent for a woman who illicitly had sex with a co-worker this morning. He never before regarded her as sly, but discovering this new side of her is a definite turn-on.

Approaching him, she smiles warmly and he hands her the paperwork to sign for the files from the DA's office. Takes the chance to study her delicate features, her lips, while she's preoccupied. It's not often that he's been this close to her. Could have reached out for her, if easy prey would have been his preference. She's so cute. So oblivious of what she's gotten herself into.

Lisbon looks up and instinctively he takes a step back. He doesn't want to get caught staring. Can't afford to get figured out by her. Not yet. For all she knows, he's just another delivery guy.

She gives back the pen and their fingers touch. Brush one another. Skin on skin, for a brief, precious moment. Jane instead had his paws all over her body last night and this morning. The anger he felt while watching them flares up again, but it's not as strong anymore. Her company is soothing. All those weeks of observing her and Jane getting closer and closer seem forgotten now that she's here in front of him.

He realizes that it's not too late; he's not defeated yet. She might believe after a first night of passion that she's in love with Jane, but her feelings aren't established enough to make it impossible for them to change.

Diverting her from Jane won't be easy though. It might take more than usually to attract her attention. More than one dead body of a stranger at a time to make it clear that he's still caring for her. Glancing around the bullpen, he spots several eligible candidates to convey the message convincingly. Accordingly, he feels his appetite for murder return. Embraces the notion like a long-lost friend.

He says goodbye to Lisbon, for now. Leaving her, he clasps the pen tightly. It's a cheep substitute for his trusty knife, but it'll have to suffice until he gets home. The anticipation of future events puts a swing in his step.

Tonight, it's time to paint the town red again for Lisbon.

ღ_** The End**_


	11. Post Scriptum

**Title: **Post Scriptum

**Characters:** Jane, Lisbon, a young woman

**Genre:** Hurt/Comfort

**Spoilers:** none

**Prompt: **letters

**Notes: **Written for the Paint It Red January monthly challenge.

* * *

Red Jane fools them again. Keeps them up for a day and half a night until their exhaustion makes them feel the bitter sting of defeat stronger than ever. Fending off Lisbon's well-intentioned, yet nevertheless pointless words of compassion and optimism, Jane storms out of the bullpen.

He just needs to get outside.

Be alone.

Breathe.

Walk.

On especially bad nights like this one, he usually ends up on the wrong side of town. He is vaguely aware that he is looking for trouble, longs to get beaten up to silence the nagging thoughts of helplessness and incompetence. Nobody ever did him the favor so far. Somehow, feeling so low, he seems to blend right in with the scenery of derelict houses, shabby bars and drug dealers.

The sight of the people he passes makes him feel better, reassures him that he is not the only one battered by life. Arriving at a park littered with garbage, he sits down on a swing whose frame is in desperate need of a paint job. His phone rings for the third time since he left the CBI. Jane wants to pick up and listen to Lisbon's voice, allow her to make him believe that next time they'll catch Red John, yet he resists. He doesn't deserve her kindness; after all it was him who convinced her to chase deceptive clues again.

"Damn!"

He looks up at the sound of a female voice and sees a young woman stumble in his direction. Or rather, in the direction of the swing set, as she slumps onto the seat next to him without even acknowledging his presence. Her purse drops to the floor and mechanically he bends down to retrieve it. It is then that he notices the blood and the impressive flesh wound on her left upper arm, that she partly covers with her right hand.

Without a second thought, he takes off his jacket and folds it into a makeshift bandage. As he dresses the cut, she mumbles something about a fight with a customer. He doesn't need to ask what kind of business she pursues; her skimpy clothes and heavy make-up tell him enough. She inspects his workmanship skeptically, finally manages a quick thank-you before getting up to disappear into the night.

He is disappointed, but isn't sure what else he expected from her.

Eternal gratitude?

Someone to keep him company and save him from drowning in self-pity?

After a few steps she turns around again.

"For three-hundred bucks I'm yours for the rest of the night," she suggests, recognizing his loneliness and therefore a source of income.

She looks too young to be saying such a thing. Jane rummages around in his pockets, produces one hundred and twenty-three dollars that he offers her for a night of only talking. He is fully aware how clichéd his proposition is and the amused glint in her eyes tells him that she does as well. For a few seconds she studies his face intently and he almost expects her to turn him down. Eventually, looking tired, she takes the offered amount and he walks her home in silence. Not even when they arrive at her house she says anything, but leaves the door open for him to follow her in.

"Okay, talk," she prompts him as soon as she settles down on her couch.

All of a sudden he feels shy, doesn't want to burden her with the tragic details of his past and present. Glancing around her austere studio apartment, her threadbare furniture, he figures that she had her share of bad luck as well. So instead of pouring out his heart to her, he asks her about her life. She is monosyllabic at first, hesitant, but after a while she opens up to him. He listens to the stories about her childhood, about her thirst for adventure that made her drift so far away from her family that she didn't find her way back anymore.

The morning dawns when she sleepily lays down on the couch that also serves as her bed. Semi-dormant, still wearing his jacket as a bandage, she looks very vulnerable. Jane finds a blanket to tuck her in and kisses her gently on the forehead before leaving. He wishes that he could have done more for her, but maybe receiving another person's full attention is what she really needs at this point in her life.

The chill of the early morning bites through the thin fabric of his dress shirt and he crosses his arms to hug some warmth into himself. He is only two streets away from work when it occurs to him that he never asked for her name.

ღ

The next time he sees her, the wound on her arm turned into a pinkish scar that he keeps staring at to avoid looking at the fresh, fatal ones covering the rest of her body. Jane blanks out Lisbon's voice, the bustle of policemen and forensic scientists.

He forgets to breathe.

Coughs.

Feels bile rising up into his throat.

Wards off Lisbon's concern with a wave of his hand.

Finally, after a quick last glance at the lifeless girl's face, he turns away brusquely. There is nothing he can do for her anymore. There might not even have been anything that he could have done to prevent her death. And yet, he feels responsible. Blames himself for not checking on her again. For simply forgetting about her, really, after only a few days.

To occupy himself he begins opening and closing closet doors and drawers. Officially, he is looking for clues that lead to her killer. Actually, though, he is looking for clues about the victim as well.

Almost he expects to find his crumpled-up, blood-soaked jacket somewhere, but comes to the conclusion that she got rid of it long ago. In all probability, she forgot about him just as fast as he did about her. In the right bottom drawer of a vanity table he comes across a bundle of papers held together with a rubber band. He just wants to toss them aside like the rest of the bills and demand notes, when he notices the salutation on top of a page.

'Daddy,'

In neat, puerile handwriting.

Despite her telling him about her family, finding proof of her status as someone's daughter feels like a slap in the face. There are eight letters in total, all intended for the same addressee. Unfolding a sheet of paper, he skims through it. Sees words like 'sorry' and 'miss you'. And, finally, 'Marie'.

Marie.

He imagines her sitting on the old couch, writing letters to her father that she then didn't dare to send. In this very moment, he isn't able to imagine anything more desolate.

Carefully, he replaces the rubber band, then makes sure nobody is watching before tucking the letters into the inside pocket of his jacket. They are way too precious to become part of a murder investigation. And now that Marie is dead, they also carry so much more meaning than when she wrote them.

ღ

The bundle lies on his desk in the attic of the CBI building for nine days. Marie's family gets notified and suspects are brought in for questioning. Jane manages to keep up the pretense of working the case during the day, but develops a habit of sitting in his chair all night and staring at the letters. More than a dozen times he reaches out, brushes them tenderly with his fingertips and longs to read them. Yet they aren't meant for him; he is only a messenger.

The day after Marie's killer is caught, he is finally ready to let go of them. The idea of simply mailing them to her father never occurs to him. He tells Lisbon that he needs to take two days off. She doesn't ask any questions, but he can feel her concerned look following him as he leaves her office.

It is wintry in Philadelphia when he steps out of the airport. The snow scrunches under Jane's soles as he walks down the street of Marie's childhood home. He rings the bell of the two-storied brick house twice, is strangely relieved when nobody answers. All the way here, he didn't find the right words to say to Marie's father. Slowly, solemnly, he places the letters in the mailbox, then walks across the street and wipes the snow from a bench to sit down.

Nearly two hours later, his arms, legs and face are numb from the cold. He realizes that he would happily freeze to death if it meant that the letters would reach their recipient. Fortunately, this proves unnecessary as finally a man approaches the house. Holding the bundle of letters in his hand, he glances around several times, then leans heavily against the front door. Even from the distance Jane notices how shaken the man is by his unexpected gift and stands up to leave.

On the flight home, he contemplates why his undoubtedly good deed doesn't make him feel better. It is only two days later, back in the CBI attic, that he understands he is envious. Marie gave her father something that Jane will never have.

Staring at his now empty desk, he wishes that his daughter would have gotten the chance to grow old enough to become versed in the art of letter writing.

ღ

When they get another lead on Red John a few months later and fail to catch him again, Jane doesn't walk away. Sitting together on the bullpen couch, enjoying cups of perfectly made tea, he confides in Lisbon about Marie and the letters. He is prepared for all kinds of possible reactions, but the one Lisbon chooses he doesn't see coming.

She takes him to a nearby flower shop, makes him purchase a brightly-colored bouquet. His confusion about this development only gives way to understanding when Lisbon parks the car opposite the cemetery. Jane leaves her leaning against the driver's door, kneels down at Marie's graveside.

"I'm sorry," he says, not quite knowing what he's apologizing for.

After laying down the flowers on the moist earth, he looks back at Lisbon, then turns his face to the overcast sky.

He can almost see the sun.

_**ღ The End**_


	12. Crossing Lines

**Title: **Crossing Lines

**Characters:** Lisbon/Jane

**Genre:** Romance

**Spoilers:** none

**Prompt: **Um, boundaries?

**Notes: **For tromana. (I know, it's only a drabble. But it _is_ my very first one ever.)

* * *

Are you confused, love? It's not as if you didn't experience mornings like this before, but something is different, isn't it?

His vest, draped loosely over the back of your chair, is more confirmation of crossed lines than his arms embracing your naked body. Your gun, placed conveniently right next on the dresser, accentuates the indecency of the situation even more. He stirs, soon will open his eyes. You surprise yourself by not panicking, place a hand on his stomach to quicken his awakening.

This one, unlike the men before him, will be welcome to stay for breakfast, won't he?

_**ღ The End**_


End file.
